Page 10 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

“Maybe he’s got work for the likes of you,” the potman said with a grin.

“I’ll ask,” Janey said. “Put in a word for you and all, if you like!” She let out another shriek of laughter as they abandoned more than half their ale and lurched off out the door. She was pleasantly surprised by how well Lenny played along, even holding her up as they staggered out the door.

“’Ere!” she addressed the tall-hatted policeman. “You got a rotten job, ain’t ya? That’s an ’orrible place, in there. Wouldn’t work there for all the tea in China!”

“Nor for the beer, neither,” Lenny muttered.

“What you hanging about here for, anyway?” Janey asked the policeman with a friendly nudge.

“Doing my duty and keeping watch. Like I said, a man was killed here the other night.” For a second, the policeman looked hopeful. “You weren’t around here night before last, were you? About eight in the evening?”

“Might’ve been,” Lenny lied, impressing Janey all over again. “What should I have seen? Never saw a fight, I’m sure of that.”

“What about someone running away? Maybe even two people?”

“Two people?” Janey pounced, then, afraid of seeming too eager, she added, “That ain’t fair, two against one.”

“Murder isn’t fair,” the policeman said austerely.

Janey nodded sagely.

“How do you know two people croaked him, then?” Lenny asked.

“I never said they did. Just two different people were seen running away. Sailors, both of them, but one was English and one was dark.”

“Together?” Lenny asked.

“Not necessarily,” the policeman said grandly. “And you can move on if you’ve got no information.”

Janey and Lenny moved on, remembering to weave as they went.

“We need to find out who the English sailor was,” Janey said. “Because he was probably the one who committed the murder.”

“I don’t see how you work that out,” said Lenny, who had never met Mr. Grey’s double. “Could have been either of them. Or neither.”

“Well, we know who the dark man was,” Janey admitted. She sighed. “I should go back to the office. You coming?”

To her disappointment, Lenny shook his head. “I got things to look up about Herbert Chase. I’ll call in later, though, if I find anything.”

“Right you are,” Janey said cheerfully.

It was too soon to hope for any more from Lenny Knox. In her heart, she knew he would never look at her that way, and she didn’t blame him.

*

After a pleasantly filling meal at the inn, which made up for their lack of breakfast, Solomon and Constance borrowed the innkeeper’s gig and followed his instructions to Dravenhoe Farm to seek out the Gimlet family.

The Gimlets were, apparently, long-standing tenants of the Mortimers of the manor house.

Dravenhoe was not large, although it seemed to be in good repair.

In the distance, a couple of men were working in a field, part of which was already plowed.

Solomon drove the gig past a few curious cows, and some sheep, before arriving at the farmhouse.

The door opened almost at once and a young woman came out, drying her hands on a cloth, her hair covered by plain kerchief. She looked tired and somehow frail.

She paused, blinking at her visitors in surprise. “Oh. Are you lost?”

“I don’t think so,” Constance answered. “Is this Dravenhoe, and are you Mrs. Gimlet?”

“Yes, but…”

“We’re friends of Dr. Chadwick,” Solomon said, with a touch of exaggeration. “My name is Grey. This is Mrs. Silver. We’re hoping you can help us with something.”

“Are you looking for my husband? He’s over in the field.”

“Perhaps later,” Constance said, “but we’d like to talk to you first, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Mrs. Gimlet said, and Constance rather thought that she didn’t. She might have been going through the motions of life, but neither her heart nor her mind shone in her weary, numb eyes.

At her invitation, they tied the horse to the fence around the henhouse, followed her into her clean kitchen, and sat at her well-scrubbed table.

“We were wondering,” Constance said, deciding to start with the easier question, “if you happened to witness an incident in the village shop, maybe three or four weeks ago? The shop was busy and Mrs. Keaton was showing a selection of new silk shawls to the vicar’s wife.”

“Was she?”

Mrs. Gimlet probably hadn’t noticed. No doubt her daughter was already ill… “One of the shawls disappeared and Mrs. Keaton thought Nell Dickie took it. She asked her to leave.”

“And threatened her with Mr. Heron, the constable. I do remember that. Poor Nell. The Dickies get blamed for everything.”

“With justification?”

“Maybe. Sometimes. But what on earth would Nell want with a silk shawl? It won’t keep her or her babies warm, will it?”

“She could sell it or exchange it for something that would.”

“She could. Maybe.” Mrs. Gimlet didn’t look convinced. But she didn’t look particularly upset either.

“Then you didn’t see her steal it?”

“I didn’t see anyone steal anything. I was looking for a tincture to make my little Jenny better.”

“I heard about your loss,” Constance said quickly. “I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Gimlet said mechanically.

“Um…did you happen to hear what passed between Mrs. Keaton and Nell Dickie?”

“Not really. I heard Nell raise her voice and then Mrs. Keaton sent her out and threatened her with Constable Heron. Her little lad looked terrified.”

“Are the Keatons kind people?” Constance asked. “Are they liked in the village?”

“I never thought about it,” Mrs. Gimlet said with a shrug. “They’re important to us—because of the shop. And church. They’re charitable people. Gossip, of course, but they hear everything from everyone, and who wouldn’t, in that position?”

It was the most she’d said at one time, but there was no animation, let alone strong feeling, in her voice.

“Can Nell read?” Solomon asked.

“No, I don’t think so. Neither can old Harry nor Hen. The children must do, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

Mrs. Gimlet shrugged. “Because they go to the village school, same as mine. Mr. Ogden makes sure they all read and write, makes no difference between any of them.”

Solomon met Constance’s gaze. “Interesting.”

“How many children do you have, Mrs. Gimlet?” Constance asked.

“Just the one now. Richard. He’s eleven. Broke his little heart when his sister died. I told him she was with God now, and he said he hated God.”

“It will take time,” Constance said, feeling stupid and helpless, because nothing she said could help a mother, a family, with such grief.

But the woman nodded in acknowledgment. “He hated everyone for a bit.”

Very reluctantly, Constance said, “Including the doctor?”

“At first. But there was nothing Dr. Chadwick could do. She was just too ill. Maybe if he’d come sooner…”

“Did you ask him to?”

“I sent Richard to him, and he spoke to Mrs. Chadwick. Doctor came the next day, and our Jenny was dead by evening.” Mrs. Gimlet stood up, unable to be still. “A cup of tea, maybe? Or some ale? We make our own—Fred says it’s better than the stuff at the Goose.”

“Oh, no, we shan’t keep you any longer,” Constance said at once.

“Just one more question,” Solomon said. “I don’t suppose you have ever received an anonymous letter?”

Mrs. Gimlet blinked in clear incomprehension. “A what?”

“An unsigned letter that might be insulting or threatening.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Mrs. Gimlet replied with some distaste, before the numbness drifted back across her eyes.

*

“I hated that,” Constance said intensely as Solomon drove the pony along the path from the farm.

“I know. And I doubt it will be any easier with her husband.”

“I don’t think she’s in any state to be bothered producing anonymous letters.”

“Two of them were sent before her daughter died,” Solomon pointed out.

Constance turned to stare at him. “Seriously? You think she sent them?”

“Not really. But it’s not impossible, is it? And then there’s her boy, angry and grieving.” He slowed the horse at the side of the hedge, and they gazed over to where the men were working. “We could make our way over there and interrupt them at work.”

“Or we could wait until Gimlet notices us and comes over for a more private conversation. Or I could attract his attention by bursting into song.”

“Or we could wave,” Solomon said, rising from the seat to do so.

It worked. One man saw him first and called to the other, and the second walked smartly along a narrow path between furrows.

“Good afternoon,” Solomon called amiably.

The farmer nodded curtly and came to a halt at the hedge that separated them. “What can I do for you?” It wasn’t rude, but nor was it encouraging.

“Mr. Gimlet? My name’s Grey,” Solomon said. “I’m looking into an odd matter for Dr. Chadwick.”

“What sort of a matter?”

“A sort of anonymous insult aimed at his wife.”

The farmer made a derisory puffing sound through his lips. “That’ll be women’s stuff, and he should know better than to get involved. Some nice church lady’ll be jealous of another’s flower arranging. What’s he involving you for?”

“Oh, a fresh pair of ears and eyes,” Solomon said vaguely.

“Two fresh pairs,” Gimlet said, his gaze flickering over Constance.

“As you say. I don’t suppose you have an idea who might have done such a thing?”

“I don’t even know what thing you’re talking about,” Gimlet retorted. “And if I did, I’d keep out of it.”

“What, even if someone insulted your wife?”

Gimlet’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” Constance said. “Merely that a man rarely tolerates his wife’s being insulted.”

“I wouldn’t know. No one’d ever insult my Tilly, because she never gave ’em cause.”

“Do you think Mrs. Chadwick might have given someone cause?”

“How the devil would I know? Look, I got work to do, and I don’t think much of yours. My best to Dr. Chadwick.”